


you're losing a saviour and a saint

by agent_orange



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: First Time, M/M, Tickling, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 02:18:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete never would've guessed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're losing a saviour and a saint

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: These are real people, not my characters, and they belong to no one besides themselves. This did not happen. If you got here by Googling yourself, please hit the back button.

Trying to sleep in a freezing motel room isn't that much better than trying to sleep in the freezing, cramped van, Pete thinks, but at least it doesn't smell like unwashed jizz socks and weed. Granted, the bed's not that comfortable, and he'll be lucky to get six hours of sleep. He's pressed against Patrick, though, who's cuddly and somehow all warm, cushioning where Pete's bones stick out of his skin. Patrick's hair smells really good, clean, and Pete inhales deeply. The slow, measured in-out of Patrick's sleep breathing is enough to get Pete to drift off to sleep.

It's what he wakes up to, panting and shivering in his own cold sweat, a couple hours later. Fucking nightmares. Joe and Andy are dead to the world in the other bed, their backs to each other but still close enough to stay warm. Pete contemplates not waking Patrick up, but the kid can sleep anywhere, anytime, and the show tomorrow will be a lot better if Pete gets some more rest.

"Patrick," he whispers as quietly as possible. " _Patrick_. Dreams again. Can you sing me something?"

"Th' fuck?" Patrick mumbles, rubbing at his eyes as he turns to face Pete. "It's the middle of the night."

"I know." Pete does his best to look guilty. "It was the one with Slenderman and the—"

"Okay." Patrick sighs, carding a hand through his hair and messing it up more in the process. "Just one or two. Gotta sound good for the show tomorrow."

And he does feel bad, making this 19-year-old kid take care of him and clean up his messes. He did get Patrick out of having to go to college or get a real job, though. 

Patrick launches into "Chelsea Hotel," right into Pete's ear and just barely loud enough to be heard. It calms Pete down and clears out the bad thoughts. Patrick does "Landslide" next, so melancholy Pete almost wants to cry. He brushes his fingers over the logo on Patrick's tshirt, down his sides, drawing light circles on his skin through the material.

Patrick jerks back abruptly, cutting off mid-verse. "Don't do that," he says as sharply as he can without raising his voice. His face is pink, and Pete tries to do it again just to see what'll happen, but Patrick shoves his arms away and crosses his own over his chest. "Seriously, don't. I sang for you, and I'm tired as shit. I just wanna go back to sleep, Pete. Close your eyes.

"'M sorry," Pete whispers back. He brushes his lips over Patrick's forehead and then puts his head back down. Patrick turns away from him, the muscles in his back tense. Pete doesn't think anything of it until he's almost in dreamland and then his brain helpfully supplies _Patrick was getting turned on by it_! before shutting right back off again.

~*~

The morning brings another two hours of driving and the only vegan snacks they can find at the gas station, then an interview with a local radio station where they're asked about groupies and favorite superheroes. Pete wonders if last night even happened. He doesn't bring it up and neither does Patrick.

When they're on stage that night, though, it's on Pete's mind. Nervous energy buzzes through his veins, and there's so much of it that it has to come out somehow and playing bass can't get rid of all of it. He bounces over to Joe, spins his guitar and plays up to Andy. He throws himself into the crowd and lets them grab at him, like a wave is swallowing him up. During "Calm Before the Storm," he clings to Patrick's side like he's Pete's life preserver.

Patrick's neck is damp with sweat, and Pete can't resist blowing on it, watching tiny droplets move across the skin and the fine blond hairs stand up. His voice catches on _what meant the world imploded_ but he plays it off well. Pete knows he'll be getting a stern talking-to later.

After, they scrape together just enough cash for a late-night stop at Denny's (fucking _Denny's_ , seriously, Pete misses real food) before it's back to the van for him and Joe to take the overnight driving shifts. He does the first one, still a little buzzed from the show; by four a.m., he's tired enough that a couple hours of sleep come easy, even pressed against an amp and Andy's fucking bony hips.

~*~

Pete basically holds his breath, so to speak, for the next few days. For one, you can only make someone you're living in very close quarters with so angry before the situation becomes completely hostile. For another, he's caught off guard by learning something new about Patrick, especially something so interesting. They've known each other four years. Pete knows that Patrick loves black licorice (weirdo) and hates barbecue sauce ( _weirdo_ ); he knows when to push him and when to step back. He knows what Patrick sounds like when he's jerking off, trying not to make any noise, coming into his hand.

But Patrick having a thing for tickling? Pete never would've guessed, since Patrick will hit anyone who tries to touch his stomach. Then he starts wondering if it's some kind of fucked-up Freudian thing, if something happened to Patrick when he was little. Pete's not looking for a broken nose, but he also wants to explore this further. So he starts touching Patrick a little more than usual—nothing that'll make him thing something's up, just casual pats on the arm, light touches to the back.

He buys Oreos and licorice and Doritos at gas stations, feeding them to Patrick when his expression gets increasingly stressed as he shuffles through pages of Pete's lyrics. But he can't make it look suspicious, so he steals the hash browns off Patrick's plate whenever they stop at diners, leaving him with just the congealed powdered eggs and "fresh fruit."

Even though Pete's an expert at manipulation, his patience is shit. He only makes it a couple weeks before he breaks. Patrick's driving and Pete's navigating through one of the Dakotas, nothing but cows and wheat around for miles. This is the kind of solitude Pete simultaneously craves and fears. The radio's on, crackling static and late-night jazz standards, while Joe makes little snuffling noises in his sleep.

Pete unbuckles his seatbelt, since they can't get into an accident without any other cars on the road, and leans over to rest his head on Patrick's shoulder. He's not even really tired.

"I wonder if animals think in English," Pete says, "or in, like, oinks. But then I don't know what animals from other countries would think in. Would American dogs be able to talk French dogs?"  

"Shut up, Pete," Patrick says affably. "Most dogs have the mental age of toddlers, so they wouldn't be able to form coherent sentences."

  Pete doesn't question it, because that's exactly the type of random fact Patrick can remember whenever, and just wriggles his head a little so his hair brushes Patrick's neck.

It makes Patrick pull away and glare at Pete out of the corner of his eye, but nothing else. So Pete decides he needs to get a definitive answer, here and now. He curls his fingers and works them down Patrick's side, over his stomach. The van jerks to one side so abruptly it's a surprise Joe and Andy don't wake up.

"Jesus Christ," Patrick hisses. He pulls the van over to the shoulder of the road and turns to face Pete. "Are you trying to get me to do some weird accidental murder-suicide thing? This isn't _funny_."

It only takes a quick glance down for Pete to see that Patrick's half-hard in his jeans.

"I knew it!" he says too loudly, unable to keep the grin on his face. "Tickling turns you on. You could have told me, Patrick. There are people you can see about that kind of thing. Really, it's not —"

"That's _it_ ," Patrick says, climbing out of the van and yanking Pete with him so fast Pete's not even sure what's happening. "Yeah, I know, it's fucking weird and embarrassing and all that. I'm the short, unattractive lead singer of a rock band and I've had sex twice in my life and I want someone to hold me down and tickle me and get me off. That's why I was trying to fucking hide it from you, you asshole." Patrick's practically yelling, and they've probably already woken up Joe, if not all the livestock in a ten-mile radius.

Without thinking, Pete surges forward and kisses Patrick. It's their first non-drunk, non-'dared to' kiss, and it kind of sucks. Patrick's caught off guard and Pete accidentally knocks their teeth together, cuts his lip on Patrick's incisor, but he pulls back and goes again. Patrick relaxes into it before tensing up and asking, "Wait, what the fuck? Is this for real or—"

"Yes, shhh, come on," Pete says, tugging Patrick in closer by his collar. "Can I, let me, I wanna make you feel good." Patrick nods wordlessly, pupils blown. He's never been good at saying no to Pete, and he also has a thing for biting, apparently, because he moans when Pete gets Patrick's earlobe between his teeth.

They have to be in Fargo or Sioux Falls or something by morning, so as much as Pete wants to draw this out, they don't have time, and pressed against the van isn't the place. He sucks on Patrick's neck, accidentally leaving a light bruise, and kisses him in apology before dealing with Patrick's pants: belt, button, zip, and then down around his ankles. _More hands would be great right now_ , Pete thinks. He wants to rip Patrick's hat off and figure out what he likes, tease him until he's begging for it. You can't tickle yourself, though, so he gets one hand on Patrick's dick and one by his ribs.

Patrick goes for Pete's pants, but Pete stops him. "One of us has to drive, and getting off puts me right to sleep, normally. It's fine. You can do me later."

"Okay," Patrick says. He looks suspicious, like maybe this is a trap, but only for a few minutes, because soon he's got his lip in his mouth and his eyes closed and his hands in Pete's hair, moaning quietly and involuntarily jerking back from Pete's fingers on his torso. He comes on a laugh, sharp and bright, and it's beautiful, the sounds he's making and the flush high on his cheeks. Pete keeps going with both hands until Patrick's shaking from overstimulation and giggles. Then he gets all shivery, which is probably at least in part from the chill in the air.

"Come on." Pete helps him back into the van because Patrick's practically slumped over against it, covers him with a dirty blanket from the back and buckles his seatbelt. He hopes Patrick's not freaking out internally, because that avalanche of feelings is bound to hit Pete in a few hours; they'll have to deal with what just happened eventually, but right now, he just wants to drive and listen to Duke Jordan cut in and out on the radio.


End file.
